


Vieux Carre

by CB Winchester (Fireheart8)



Category: Non-Fiction - Fandom
Genre: New Orleans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireheart8/pseuds/CB%20Winchester
Summary: A gaze into the life of a New Orleans tour guide.





	Vieux Carre

This city holds wonder. It holds wonder the way it holds me. I am lost, I am found, I am broken, and I am whole. All within the crossroad streets and darkened alleys of this haunted city. From the sombre St Louis No.1 to the sweet sugared beignets from Cafe Du Monde, I find pieces of myself, pieces of my life entwined in the very fabric of the tapestry that is this hallowed, historic ground. Twisting shades of royal purple, glistening gold, and swampland green, all held together by that Fleur-de-lis, the one that means forever and always.

I was born and raised in the Garden District, a streetcar ride from one of the most famous districts in the city; The French Quarter. I’d often spend the summer down in the bayous of Louisiana camping and exploring, particularly down by Jean Lafitte near the banks of the Mississippi River, the playground of gators and all manner of swamp-dwelling creatures. Despite the mugginess of the air, I’d chase adventure amongst the cypress trees and duckweed. Oh, the way I’d seek out lightning bugs in the waning light of hot summer nights. Their graceful swirling dance, drifting across the darkening sky, full of stars that would appear like a scattering of jewels above my head. All this life, all this wondrous, rapturous bliss left me at the sheer mercy of what I could only describe as Louisianan magic.

When I had grown old enough, wise enough, I’d ventured into the jazz-soaked streets of the French Quarter, and whilst my playground changed from the leafy green neighbourhood and boonies to the crowded streets of The Big Easy, the atmosphere of the city was one and the same with the bayous; both without compare. The high-columned and vividly painted houses, wrought iron balconies spilling Spanish moss and vines, crickets singing a nightly opera, and wisps of mist that wreath the city as the dawn crests; this magic you cannot find anywhere else. When it comes to eating, drinking and making merry, these are the very the air that New Orleans breathes, the things that make life worth living. This city has it all; culture, food, and historic architecture, and to top it off; _joie de vivre_.

New Orleans, you reek of fresh baked pastries, of gumbo and jambalaya, of melted candles, of white sage, and Palo Santo, and I would never, ever, trade you for the world. I wouldn’t give up your cobbled lanes or gothic cemeteries for sprawling cityscapes. I wouldn’t trade your marshy swamps and gators for desert stretches. I wouldn’t trade your Cajun charm and Creole drawl for all the stars in the sky. You, my Crescent City, have endured plagues, wars, fires, and floods. Yet, you always wake up with a smile on your face. The way you move at a relaxed pace, delight with your French Creole elegance of the Vieux Carré, and stun with the opulence of your Garden District and the urban buzz of Uptown, is thanks to the easy beat that came to be three centuries ago.

I know the witch down on the corner is the true kind, that the gris-gris pouch hanging from her belt and grimoire in her arms hold secrets I one day hope to know, that gems encrusted by silver that encircle her fingers channel everything she’s got. I know the man down by Rue St. Ann sold his soul for the blues, the way Robert Johnson did all those years ago. He may be damned but the sound that comes from both guitar and mouth, those crossroad blues, will echo in the streets of the Quarter forever. I nod and smile at them both as I go by.

The day I turned eighteen was the day I moved into that small studio above a store on Bourbon Street, and it’s been many years since then. It’s nothing grand, shabby really, but the iron balcony that overhangs the street offers the most incredible view. There’s a constant hum of brass instruments throughout the apartment, one I still love to this day, and the chatter of people keeps me occupied more often than not. That small studio is my home; the rustic (for lack of a kinder word) floorboards covered in paint, the desk scattered with unfinished manuscripts, the balcony overflowing with green.

Carnival, on which my humble home becomes the perfect vantage point for the celebrations, not that I spend much time at home during, had truly set in. The Quarter swims with people, the streets bleed with those brassy Jazz tones I love so much, and are scattered with rainbow beads. Those hues, of green, purple, red, gold, hang from the iron twists and curls of my balcony, and remind me of many Mardi Gras past and gone. Some have faded with the light, the way hair fades with age; no less beautiful, just differently so. But new colour is covering here.

I can imagine what the Roaring 20’s would have been like in these very streets, I can imagine the Gatsby grade parties, the captivating surrounds, the ultimate sense of freedom in a society prospering both economically and socially. I can imagine the bright blare of Dixieland tunes, the clicking of heels against wooden floors, the clinking and shuffling of beads against satin and themselves, of silver and gold jewellery tinkling and glinting in low light. It’s captivating, just the thought of it. A city full of people living their best lives, working hard, and playing harder. A city with hopes, dreams, and an undying passion for life itself. The Crescent City attracts everyone with a disposition for an exciting life with the promise of ultimate freedom.

As I walk the streets, heading past stores and restaurants, I am at the mercy of enticing scents and alluring jazz. I gaze upon the small things; the way the light batters down and filters through stained glass, the crisscross of the pavement blocks, the slight back and forth drift of hanging signs in the breeze. I adore the coral shades, the burnt oranges, the sunflower yellows, and lush greens, the way every single building has a different shade, yet all fit in so well. The Creole women wear shades just alike in fabulous and extravagant ways, sauntering through the Quarter like dancers or royalty, leaving their magic wherever they go.

On my way to work I stop for beignets at the cafe named after the delicacy, they make the eight-minute walk more of a journey than a means to an end, more than just a way to get somewhere. I enjoy devouring them as I walk past many restaurants and gift stores. When I come to the famous Cat’s Meow, I turn onto St. Peter, this street is home to the start and end of my work day, and my favourite voodoo store. There’s already a line, and I know they’re all tourists, they are the only customers we tend to get in my line of work.

“Welcome to the French Quarter, the crown jewel and oldest city of New Orleans. Here we have local legends and true tales of ghosts, vampires, witchcraft, voodoo, and unexplained mysteries.”

My job is one of the quirkier aspects of my life in New Orleans, a tour guide for all things cultural, historical, musical, and even paranormal. Ever since I was a child, I’d been fascinated by the tales my Grandmamma would weave of voodoo queens, urban legends, and a host of kooky cryptids. She’d regale tales of the ghosts of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, the man-turned-wolf Rougarou, the vampire brothers of New Orleans, the Devil Man of Algiers, and almost every other creature or cryptid haunting the city. All of that combined with my Grandmamma's penchant for Voodoo and anything Cajun cuisine, had me growing up fantasizing of sharing those tales with those who came looking, and knowing every nook and cranny of the city.

Beneath all the jazz and partying and booze, there’s a dark scar that lines the belly of this city. This city had burnt, not once but twice, resulting in events that had been titled The Great Fires. Cyclones had ravaged, but the one that had fixated itself in the memories of most in this city, including myself, had been that of Katrina in 2005. The sky had gone dark, the streets had flooded, but our true New Orleans grit had been stronger than the cyclone itself, and this undying city’s residents had stood against her and against the destruction itself. Some bars of the Quarter still served drinks and spilled onto the streets those melodies that mimic the feeling of life in its simplest form, somewhat ephemerally floating between the good and the bad. The buildings could rage with fire, the ground could shake and crack, the streets could flood, all as they had before, and I would still stay. This city has a firm grip on me and I do not despise that it does, not one bit. 

The darkness and danger are part of the appeal, the ghosts and ghouls lurking around every corner, that hum of dark magic that emanates from the very ground, are countered by the white light mystic, the southern charm, and of course the people. You could be in the most beautiful place ever, but it wouldn’t matter if the people weren’t kind and the food wasn’t good. This city, she has a lived-in grittiness and a street-culture that offer a very visceral beauty. Every city balances a fine line of good and bad, yet New Orleans is worth it. All of it. And she salutes her survival with celebrations and rituals of hedonism, where tradition and community spirit are joyful dances.

Grandmamma meets me on the corner of Bourbon and St. Peter. Where the crowds move back and forth, hundreds, thousands of people living so untethered within these streets. Teeming with life, and death, and everything beyond.

“Grandmamma, you been doing tarot for the tourists again? I saw you out if the corner” I questioned.

The smirk spreading across her face shined as bright as always. 

I shake my head, chuckling, and loop my arm through hers. The street lamps begin to illuminate the streets, set a glow my Grandmamma’s lavender tinted grey hair and silver jewellery for which I had an affinity for. 

“Oh cher, they come to me for their fortunes, for a little bit a magic.” Grandmamma states, “What about you cher? I think you could use a little magic.”

“This city has all the magic I need, Grandmamma.” I reply, drawing my next sentence out in a drawl, “All the magic I need.”

She wraps an arm around me, and with it I feel the tingle of happiness and magic flowing through us both. As we walking, the city stretching out beneath our feet, I find myself thanking whatever deity presides over us, for everything. I couldn’t imagine this city without Grandmamma in it, and yet I know that when she’s passed and buried in St Louis No. 1, that she’ll still very much be part of this city, of the very energy that flows through it.

For once I was absolutely thankful for the day shift. To be able to share this warm summer night with the matriarch of my family, the family that had called New Orleans home for three hundred years. My family had been through it all, through the fires, the storms, the sweltering summer heat, and any other trial or tribulation that was set before them. They’d made a name for themselves in this city, been there to clean up when things got tough, and celebrate when things were going golden. I am proud, well and truly, to be part of such a family. I am blessed to be a New Orleanian. There’s nowhere on this earth that I’d rather be, nowhere that could hold me, charm me, or fulfil me as much as New Orleans. I am not the first, nor will I be the last of my line to spend my life living in and loving this city. 

People often ask me; why this city? Why New Orleans? What is it about here? It’s the here-and-now decadence, the amazing food and potent cocktails. It’s the live music filling cobbled sidewalks and worn streets; as iconic to the soundscape of the city as streetcar bells. It’s about the locals, their inimitable energy and irrefutable love of the arts, incredible generosity and doting nature. You will find no place on earth even remotely like New Orleans, the city beyond comparison to any other place the world has to offer. The culture of this place and people sparks up from the streets instead of from the grand heights above. A ground zero for everything laissez-faire, indulgent, shabby, spirituous, and all-around bat shit crazy. It may be borderline dysfunctional, but this lively city soaked in jazz and debauchery is the foundation for a great time and a community that is unmatched for creativity and southern hospitality.

With these warm nights that beg for quiet, I tend to wander the streets, slipping through the throng of tourists and locals alike. Tonight, the calm breeze calls to me and I seek the rush of night air that only comes from a streetcar ride. I used to ride the streetcar all the time, especially as a child, and I remember the sense of peace and wonder. It was almost as if that streetcar and its journey were a liminal space in which I both simultaneously existed and didn’t. I’ve always had a habitual liking for the in-betweens. For misty, edge-of-the-woods towns. For dusty and forgotten desert hamlets under a blanket of stars. For a city so alive, yet so underlined by death. For the creatures that lurk in the dark and the urban legends whispered around the campfire. Maybe that’s why I belong here, because I like this city, it’s urban legends and cryptids, exist on the edge of reality. 

As I roll towards the Garden District, I take a minute to ponder on my current standing in life. I search for the journal in my bag. The place to write down my thoughts, my desires, my experiences. The place to wildly sketch things that catch my eye and stick in my mind. To press flowers between off-white pages. To let my thoughts spill onto the lightly lined sheets, so that I can paw through them when I need inspiration or reminder. As my hands lock around the bound leather book, I exhale the tiredness of the day. Taking it out, I find myself drawing almost immediately. The stretching tree branches spilling Spanish moss fill the page, a wrought iron fence and lamp post. 

I head back after riding past my childhood home on St. Charles; an ornate 19th century house surrounded by crepe myrtle trees in full bloom and arches of Live Oaks. This part of the city is home to Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, one of the most beautiful cemeteries of the city, and a perfect location for photographing beautifully aged tombs, their decay appealing in a visceral way, and angel statuary that makes one question divinity. This district, of lush green gardens and historic houses, is a refuge from the crowds and carousal of the French Quarter. I relish the peace of late night and the gentle rattling of the streetcar beneath me as I continue to sketch my surroundings.

With my return to uptown and a completed sketch, my stop at Canal at Carondelet comes around. The large intersection stands before me as I step off the streetcar. Bright lights and chain shops greet me; MAC, Walgreens, a CVS Pharmacy. I cross the intersection and once again step onto Bourbon Street. Almost immediately I am met with ironwork balconies and neon signs. The further down the street I get, the more the crowd fills out, the sway of hips and waves of brass-heavy music pushing me to join the festivities that are a nightly routine for these streets during Carnival. There’s enough vice to make even an angel sweat like a sinner in church.

Grandmamma would be sound asleep as would many others, yet that music man who sold his soul is again playing on the corner, tilting his hat at those who tip him kindly. If I wasn’t certain he was a man, I would have sworn he was an embodiment of all the things that made up this city. His music seems to float above all other tunes and stick with me even as I move further away from him.

Carnival had well and truly set in, and glancing down at my watch, I realise it is after midnight and now officially Fat Tuesday, otherwise known as Mardi Gras Day. Hours from now the King of Carnival would be riding down the street on an opulent float, right in the middle of a party procession.

Early morning from my balcony. The mist swirls, the streets a quiet, the sky lightening from blue to pinks and oranges. People are starting to stir, some going home, others starting their days. Shutters are being thrown open, people are letting the light in, both the golden light of day and the light of energy that this city holds. I treasure every smell, sight, and feeling. Every moment and experience that you have given me, New Orleans, is a moment I am grateful for. Every heartbreak, every dark day, every unfortunate moment was a lesson that has led me to who I am today. I’m lucky to have ever felt this. I can feel the heat already, but until it truly settles in, I’ll enjoy the mild weather and my view of the French Quarter. For the rest of my days.


End file.
